


bloody valentine

by devote



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Knifeplay, M/M, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29016939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devote/pseuds/devote
Summary: Tobio’s got one hand under his coat, fingers molded to the familiar grip of his pistol. The other hand clenches a protective amulet deep in his pocket, tracing the worn metal.“Come on, you bastard,” he sighs. “I need to get to work.”It’s barely seven in the morning, and this goddamn vampire is already making him late.
Relationships: Kageyama Tobio/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 26
Kudos: 127





	bloody valentine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [submersive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/submersive/gifts).



> content warnings: gore, past character death, self-destructive tendencies, knifeplay

i.

_I have been astonished that Men could die Martyrs for religion —_  
_I have shudder’d at it —_  
_I shudder no more._

Tobio hates this work.

It’s filthy. It leaves blood crusted on his skin every night because this good-for-nothing city does not know how to sleep, and it paints his mornings dirty with half-dreamt reveries of silent monsters. He hates the gore splashed on his shoes, hates the perpetual weight of the gun in his waistband, hates that he’s only here, coiled in wait at the edge of this rank alleyway, because he made a promise long, long ago. And he is not in the habit of breaking promises to dead men.

He’s got one hand under his coat, fingers molded to the familiar grip of his pistol. The other hand clenches a protective amulet deep in his pocket, tracing the worn metal.

“Come on, you bastard,” he sighs. “I need to get to work.”

It’s barely seven in the morning, and this goddamn vampire is already making him late. Keishin is going to have his head on a silver platter and then beat it with his own corpse. Tobio’s mourning the loss of his bodily functions when something rustles in the trash bags piled against a doorstep, and he jerks aside just in time to dodge the clawed hand that whistles through the air and embeds itself in the bricks he’d been leaning against.

“There you are,” he hisses, whipping out his pistol and firing off two shots into the vampire’s shoulder. It screeches in fury, flesh splitting apart and knitting together before his eyes, and lunges at him in a frenzied blur of crimson and teeth before his shots have even stopped echoing. Tobio swings his pistol around to aim right between its eyes, but because his life is a long series of horrible, cosmic jokes, he slips on a rotten orange peel and the shot goes wild, cracking off a faraway garbage can. He has half a second to think _ah, fuck_ , before the vampire’s claws are sinking into his forearm, tearing a strangled yell from deep in his chest. Before it can wrench his arm off his body, though, it’s blasted into the wall with a horrible, shrieking scrape, its bottom half disintegrating into pungent ash. A silvery dagger whips past Tobio’s ear, embedding itself in the vampire’s throat, and the rest of it dissolves into a fine spray of blood that hovers ghostlike in the alley.

“Sloppy, Tobio-chan,” a voice lilts behind him. “Looks like you’re losing your touch.” A pair of glossy dress shoes appears in the corner of his vision, and Tobio looks up slowly to see Oikawa Tooru’s ferocious grin, blood splattered over his high cheekbones.

His heart stutters once, twice, and he scowls, straightening up quickly and scraping his shoe clean on the pavement. Something electric shivers in his belly, trailing quick, bright fingers up his spine, and he meets Tooru’s playful gaze with a glare.

“I didn’t need you to do that. I had it covered.”

Tooru tips his head to the side, an exaggerated frown tugging his lips down.

“Ah, but then we would be late, wouldn’t we? And you know how the boss feels about punctuality.” He clicks his tongue in disappointment, watching as Tobio shoves his sleeve back to hurriedly bandage his wound. “He’s not gonna be happy with that.”

“Give me a break,” Tobio mutters under his breath. He ties the bandage off with a tight knot and stows his gun back in his trousers. Keishin is going to give him hell for showing up bloody and disheveled, but there’s nothing he can do about it now. Goddamn vampires. He turns to lead the way to the office, then pauses, flicking a cursory glance over the scarlet staining Tooru’s pale skin.

Tooru raises an eyebrow.

“Got something to say, Tobio-chan?”

Tobio scowls again, then steps sharply into his space, exhaling harshly over his chin. Tooru’s jaw clenches, and Tobio bites back a scoff at how visibly his presence affects the other man. He knows that Tooru’s pride is the only thing keeping him from flinching back.

“Just…”

He fishes his handkerchief out of his pocket, gingerly wiping away the droplets on Tooru’s skin. His fingers skate over a bloodied eyelid, trembling, overly aware of the worn fabric separating his thumb from thin, fluttering skin. He brushes roughly over his cheek, then lingers at the curve of Tooru’s jaw, watching his throat bob as he swallows. They stand like that for a moment, Tobio’s fingers unconsciously curving around his cheek, before he steps back abruptly, folding the handkerchief into quarters and stowing it away. The air seems to slip around Tobio, slow and viscous, and they watch each other like that; two old, vicious creatures rendered motionless by a simple touch. Distantly, Tobio notes the ash still scattered on the front of Tooru’s sweater. He should brush it off. Instead, he clears his throat, dusting off his own pants, then strides away, not waiting to see if Tooru follows.

“Come on.”

After a pause, he hears the click of Tooru’s shoes behind him, and they’re oddly quiet for the rest of the walk, Tooru only breaking the silence to crack the occasional joke that Tobio steadfastly ignores.

It’s another twenty minutes before they step into the dull, white lobby, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. They deposit their weapons in the box that the bored-looking receptionist holds out, then head past her to the unmarked door at the end of the hallway.

Keishin’s ready for them inside. He doesn’t even chew them out for their tardiness, hardly waiting for them to shrug off their coats before slapping a manila folder against Tooru’s chest.

“Shapeshifter,” he explains, curt. “Messy one. I’m gonna need you two to head out to the countryside tonight.”

And just like everything else in Tobio’s shitty, hapless life, it all goes to shit after that.

ii.

_I could be martyr’d for my Religion —_  
_Love is my religion —_  
_I could die for that —_

Keishin sets them up in a cozy little cottage a couple miles away from where some civilians had last spotted the shapeshifter.

“It’ll be real fuckin’ messy,” he’d warned at the end of the briefing, pulling a photograph out of the stack Tooru had been flipping through. The victim’s body had been bent into a grisly, inhuman shape, their innards spilling out onto the forest floor, but their face had been twisted into a stiff, lovesick smile. 

“This one plays serious mind games. We’ve already lost some good men. You’re going to need to keep an eye on each other.” Keishin had glared at them, crumpling the photograph slightly in his grasp. Tobio had watched his nail dig into the victim’s splayed arms, frozen in an interrupted embrace. “You know each other pretty well, so I’m trusting you to recognize each other. Got it?”

“Yessir,” Tooru had chirped, snapping into a mock salute, and Keishin had dismissed them with a growl.

So Tobio’s trapped in this domestic joke of a place, sharpening his knife on the front steps while Tooru putters around in the kitchen. He tries to lose himself in the rhythmic scrape of steel, refusing to acknowledge the way his heart still jumps in his throat at the sweet burn of Tooru’s voice. He doesn’t want to consider what working with him again means, and he scowls heavily at the clink of dishes he can hear through the open window.

He needs to stay focused on the job. He can’t afford to fuck up again, no matter how messy his feelings for Tooru still are. He _needs_ to get his shit together. The two of them have been messy since the day they met, anyway. So he takes a deep breath and shoves his worries in the room in his mind labelled “Oikawa Tooru” that’s already overflowing with thoughts like _cooks perfect curry_ and _has hilarious bedhead_ and _probably missed you too._ He slams the mental door, standing with his hand resting on its imaginary knob, and for a few moments, his mind is blissfully blank.

It doesn’t last, of course. He can’t remember the last time he’s had a good night’s sleep, and the same memories always find him in moments of stillness. He should be better at this by now, but it’s only been a year, and Tooru’s return is forcing all kinds of sour, pieced-together weaknesses back to the surface. It’s only been a year since that last, disastrous mission, a year since he’s worked with Tooru, a year since—

The knife lets out a particular grating shriek as he presses down too hard, and Tobio unclenches his fist, breathing out harshly.

A year since Shouyou.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

A year since Shouyou had pressed his forehead to his, shaky smile streaked with blood, and told him _it’s okay._ Told him _remember what your Ojii-san said._ Told him _I’m fine here, so go find Oikawa-san, okay? You don’t need to cry, Kageyama-kun, I’m fine, but you need to go. Okay? Okay, Kageyama-kun?_ A year since Tooru had torn him away from Shouyou with a curse, yelling _stay with me, Shouyou!_ and _you need to get it together, Tobio! Tobio!_

Tobio sets the knife down and takes a deep breath, then another, and another, until his vision starts to clear. He tries to remember where he is. Tries to remember that he’s not in that blood-soaked room, cradling his best friend in his arms. His fingers tremble against the phantom memory of all that blood, seeping mockingly through his fingers while Shouyou had tugged weakly at his shirt.

He’d nearly killed himself trying to tear the ghoul off Shouyou with his bare hands before Tooru had dragged him back, nails biting into his arm while he’d thrashed and screamed.

“FUCKING— LET— GO—” he’d howled, and Tooru had cursed sharply and grabbed the side of his head to turn him away, but it had been too late. He’d seen it already. He’d stood there, shaking like a fawn, and watched as the ghoul ripped Shouyou’s pulsing heart right out of his chest, the sickening wet crunch rending the air in two. His eyes had still been open, shocked amber glazing into stone while the ghoul bared its teeth in a victorious grin, raising its bloodied hand to its mouth. Only then had Tobio looked away, his scream breaking off into a choked sob. He hadn’t been able to bear it. Not a second time.

They hadn’t talked about it. Tooru had only held him like he’d never let go, chest a solid line of heat against his back while they’d shivered together under the shower. They’d watched the blood swirl down the drain, and Tobio had thought he’d never be warm again.

See, a part of him had died the night Shouyou had died, and the rest of him has just been waiting.

Tooru’s return makes it all so much harder to deal with. He smiles at Tobio like he still knows him, and that _knowing_ leaves his gut churning with half-forgotten memories of terror and desire. Tooru’s known him since they were boys still foolish and messy with their wanting, but Tobio doesn’t want him to know him like _this_ ; like a wounded bird anchored to the ocean floor with its grieving, wings splinted and beak cracked in two.

He used to be weak around Tooru because he liked how much they needed each other. But now, he’s just weak because he’s forgotten how to live for himself. 

Tobio exhales harshly. It doesn’t bode well for the job if he’s already this distracted. He shakes his head, biting his tongue until he’s back in his body, wooden steps digging into his spine and the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.

He sheathes his knife at his side, rising to his feet, and steps down to the earthen ground. He presses his palm to the amulet resting over his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat, then kneels in the dirt, carefully tracing the characters of his _Ojii-san_ ’s name. _Kageyama. Kazuyo._ He rocks back on his heels, watching the name sink back into oblivion. He bows his head. _Rest well._

“Tobio-chan.”

Tobio whirls around to see Tooru leaning against the doorway, two steaming mugs in his hands. The other man smiles, something wistful tugging at his mouth.

“You’re always doing that.”

The setting sun cards through his hair, flickering over his features as if it hardly dares to rest on the noble tilt of his chin or the high arch of his brows. His mouth is tinted soft and pink, and the fading light clings to his eyelashes, the thick sweep of them dusting his cheeks gold. He’s dressed in a soft white shirt and a pair of sweatpants, and Tobio’s gaze unconsciously dips to the lean curve of his waist. He doesn’t look anything like the reckless boy he’d met years ago who hadn’t given a damn about saving people’s lives, least of all his own. He just looks like Tooru, all hallowed heart and filthy hands.

Tobio straightens up, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“It calms me down.”

“I know,” Tooru says, voice unusually soft. He holds out one of the mugs. “C’mon. Let’s eat.”

Tobio accepts the mug, reveling in the warmth it returns to his fingers.

“Alright.”

Dinner is a simple affair: two bowls of katsudon and a bottle of wine passed rhythmically across the table. Tooru regales Tobio with tales of the jobs he’s done the past year, and Tobio listens quietly, chiming in with a few questions that Tooru waves away. He’s missed this, he realizes. The quiet chatter of Tooru’s stories, the soft clink of their spoons, the hesitant brush of their ankles under the table. It’s been a long time since he’s known the ease of Tooru’s company. Hell, it’s been a long time since he’s known the ease of _anyone_ ’s company. He’s retreated so far into himself over the past few months that he hardly knows how to breathe anymore, taking on more and more lethal missions and hoping that every job will be the last. But even after all this time, the familiarity of Tooru’s presence is enough to draw him back out, to call him home from midwinter, to remind him to warm his hands by the fire.

It’s far too easy to fall back into this routine, to wrap himself up in the quilt sewn with old comforts, so Tobio slips away to the bedroom early, plucking at the edge of his futon. Tooru makes him feel like a nervous teenager again, clumsy with grief and snapping at the world from beneath the cover of Kazuyo’s shabby coat. They’ve had a lifetime together to tease the violence out of each other, but having Tooru this close again is too much, too fast.

Tobio tugs his shirt over his head and freezes at the soft swish of bare feet on the floorboards behind him. He swallows, the click of his throat deafening in the heavy darkness, and feels the shock of cold metal against his neck, the flat of a blade pressed to his jugular. He tips his head back, steel sliding delicately over skin, to see Tooru smirking over him, damp hair falling in his eyes.

“Careless,” Tooru teases, tilting the knife so the blunt edge of the knife scrapes just below his chin. He watches Tobio, all coiled grace and hooded eyes, and something in Tobio flutters, pleased, knowing he can still make him look at him like that. Tooru’s the one with the knife to his throat, but Tobio knows he has something Tooru beat out of himself long ago. He still hungers for self-immolation like a drug, still chases its heady self-destruction and craves the tangle of his body at the feet of uncaring gods. Maybe he’s regressed into something too base, but he wants to let his grief peel his skin back, wants to let his wretched body join Shouyou and Kazuyo’s down in the dirt.

So he smiles slowly, watching Tooru track the curl of his mouth.

“I trust you,” he says bluntly. Tooru’s eyes shutter, and he grabs Tobio’s shoulder roughly to spin him around. They stare at each other, anticipation scraping the air bone-dry, and he twists the knife until the sharp edge of the blade presses lightly against Tobio’s skin, denting but not breaking the skin. Tobio inhales shallowly, watching Tooru slide the knife down his sternum before letting it rest at the middle of his chest, tracing lazy circles inches from his heart.

“Get on the bed,” Tooru whispers, the harsh command shattering the quiet they’ve fallen into. He yanks Tobio up by his belt loops into a savage kiss, tossing the knife in a corner and walking him back towards the bed by the opposite wall. It’s the same dance as always; glory and desecration tangled together in one suffocating bed, and Tobio wants it to break him so badly that he almost cries out. He bites at Tooru’s racing pulse instead, delighting in the muffled cry he lets out, and arches into the hand curved over his hip. It’s better this way: messy, violent, fast. Because if he lets himself love Tooru, truly love him, the way he’s wanted to do all these years, he’ll want to stay. And a man who deserves to die does not need to remember how to want.

So he wraps his legs around Tooru’s waist, needing him closer, ever closer.

“Tooru,” he whispers, letting the night take his name instead of his own greedy hands, and he closes his eyes.

“Tobio,” Tooru groans back, and Tobio smiles viciously. _He wants me_ , he thinks. _He wants me._

iii.

_I could die for you._  
_My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet._

The thing finds them in the morning.

It looks like Tooru.

God, it looks like Tooru.

It’s got Tobio pinned against the kitchen counter, the earthy stink of rot clinging sharply to its skin. The runes he’d traced on Tooru’s skin last night are now burnt into its pallid skin, flesh raw and blistering.

“Tobio-chan,” it coos, and Tobio’s stomach twists, _wrongwrongwrong_ crackling through his bones. The shapeshifter cocks its head, wearing Tooru’s trademark sneer like a gruesome mask. “You’re so stiff, love.” It leans closer, sour breath wafting over his face, and Tobio shivers, trying to conceal the tremor in his hands. It’s too early to drop the act — Tooru’s crouched in wait in the next room, but the shapeshifter’s still convinced it’s got them fooled.

He laughs shakily, pushing lightly at its chest.

“Calm down. I need to make us breakfast first.” He turns his back on the shapeshifter, eyes darting to the knife block an arm’s length away. With a jolt of panic, he realizes that two of the knives are already missing.

“Fu—” he starts, lunging over the counter, and the shapeshifter grabs at his waist, sinking a blade into his shoulder in a blur of motion. It fucking _hurts_ , and he flails his other arm out to dislodge it, scrabbling for a knife but knocking the whole thing to the floor in his desperation. He dives down with a curse, kicking out at the shapeshifter’s ankles to upset its balance. It sidesteps his attack, raising the bloody knife to strike again, and Tobio launches himself forward, tackling it and pinning its arms to the floor. 

“FUCK— YOU—” he yells, thoroughly pissed off and starting to lose feeling in his left arm. _Where the fuck is Tooru?_

The shapeshifter bucks wildly beneath him, scrabbling at the tiles. It bares its teeth in a warped imitation of Tooru’s smile, and Tobio shudders to see the expression saved for him so sickeningly disfigured.

“Dirty trick, Tobio-chan,” it pants, and sinks the second knife into his side. The pain is even worse this time, lancing deep in his belly; the wound alternately burning hot and freezing cold. It smirks, and Tobio groans, slamming a fist into its nose.

“Sloppy,” it adds, syllables muddy, and hearing that word in Tooru’s voice, in this _thing_ ’s mouth, is what breaks him. 

“Shut up, shut _up_ ,” he spits, and he’s finally close enough to reach the fallen knives. He wrestles his arm out of the shapeshifter’s white-knuckled grasp, scrabbling for a knife, and manages to plunge the blade into its throat with a scream, shoulder burning with the movement.

“Shut up,” he gasps again, wrenching the knife out as the shapeshifter starts to still, legs kicking weakly, and he stabs it again, and again, and again, sobbing until he can hardly breathe. “Just leave us alone!”

“You’re not him,” he pants, but with his vision blurring with pain, it looks like Tooru’s body he’s straddling, Tooru’s blood seeping into his clothes, Tooru’s eyes staring up at him, lifeless and cold. So much like Shouyou’s. He lets the knife fall to the floor with a clatter, hands shaking so hard that scarlet scatters wildly over the tiles.

He fists his hands in the shapeshifter’s shirt, shaking it weakly.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Wait, hey, Tooru, wake up.” He gives it another shake. The mess of its throat blurs into the mess of Shouyou’s chest, and he swallows down bile. “Wake up.”

It’s only then that Tooru bursts through the door with a yell, but he freezes when he sees Tobio kneeling shakily over the shapeshifter’s corpse. Tobio gapes up at him, unseeing, lips forming a silent plea, and Tooru falls to his knees, catching him from behind. They slump to the floor together in a heap, and Tooru rubs his hand up and down his neck, face white with fear.

“—bio! Tobio, hey, come on, Tobio, stay with me,” he’s saying, and distantly, Tobio wonders why he sounds so scared. He winces as Tooru’s fingers brush over the wound in his shoulder, and his eyes flutter shut.

“Hurts,” he mumbles, and Tooru whips his hand away.

“Shit, sorry, fuck, just let me bandage you up, okay? You did well, Tobio. You did so well, okay? So just let me take care of you, and we’ll be done. We’ll be free.”

“I did good?” he echoes hazily, blinking up at Tooru. The other man’s bangs are matted to his forehead with sweat, and there’s a sluggishly bleeding gash on his forehead. Tooru nods hastily.

“You did. You killed that thing all on your own. You did so, so good, so you can’t fucking die on me now, okay? You hear me, Tobio? Stay with me, you bastard,” Tooru snaps, frantic, and Tobio tries to keep his eyes open, but it’s so, so hard. He snorts deliriously, flinching at the pain. It’s a fucking joke that such a low-level monster’s taken him out right when he’s found Tooru again. Right when he’s finally ready to live again.

“It’s okay,” he manages, coughing up a few flecks of blood. _God, it hurts._ He wraps a hand around Tooru’s wrist, stopping him as he fumbles messily with the bandages.

“It’s okay,” he repeats, voice softening. He’s gotten blood all over Tooru, bright, sticky crimson blooming from wrist to elbow. 

“Just… just let me.” He presses a finger to his skin, shakily tracing the characters against his wrist in a twisted version of last night’s prayer. _Tobio. Kageyama._ His name is unrecognizable under all that red, but he wants to let himself claim Tooru, just this once.

“Tobio,” Tooru starts, strangled, but Tobio cuts him off. He’s been so, so lonely, and Tooru is finally so, so close. 

“Why did it have to be you?” he wonders. Tooru flinches visibly, pressing harder on his wound, and Tobio lets his arm fall to the cold floor, sighing quietly. “It’s always you, damnit.” 

“Don’t talk, save your strength,” Tooru urges frantically, but Tobio shakes his head. 

“I’m just sorry I never told you,” he whispers, a wet cough wracking his body. “That— that I missed you. That mission… I thought I lost you, too. Not just— not just Shoyou.” 

Tooru’s crying in earnest now, tears spilling freely down his cheeks. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Tobio, but you can’t give up now. You _can’t._ You have to _live_ , okay?! I’m back, so you have to stay, you have to remember why, you have to—" 

“It’s okay,” Tobio breathes. “You’re here now. I found you.” 

He smiles, summoning every last bit of love still left in him, and watches Tooru break apart over him. _I found you._  


iv.

_Death will come and find you_ , Kazuyo had said long, long ago, when Tobio had still been wide-eyed with innocence, watching him slam his staff into target after target. _Do you understand?_

_Does it have to?_

_I’m afraid so._

Kazuyo had sat with Tobio, sweat still damp on his brow, stroking a gnarled hand over his bangs. _It will always come. That is the Kageyama way. And you will not save everyone. That is death’s way. But you must save space in your heart to carry love, everywhere, for as long as you can, because I know you, little bird, and you cannot let loss empty you._

_Promise me, Tobio._

_Okay. Okay, I promise, Ojii-san._

**Author's Note:**

> don't worry tobio lives lol
> 
> epigraphs are from john keats' love letters to fanny brawne.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/miwavevo) x


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